


i wish we never learnt to fly

by torasame



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sherlock AU, references to Murakami
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27385615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torasame/pseuds/torasame
Summary: Tsukishima has never been one for insignificant details— but it's the little things, he finds, that remind him of Kuroo.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei
Kudos: 16
Collections: Haikyuu Angst Week 2020





	i wish we never learnt to fly

**Author's Note:**

> extra story for "Warmth That Lingers."  
> This'll probably make more sense with the context of the first fic. Though we can see my coherency continue to slip down the drain. The book referenced here is Kafka on the Shore by Murakami which I don't recommend to anyone severely under aged, no this is not a challenge of your maturity, but rather out of concern.  
> This is all over the place with weird analogies please bear with my evident procrastination and the late night writings. I'll be swamped for the rest of the week, but I swear I am alluding to the library au and will start writing for it soon. Anyways, here's this mess of an extra story. Happy reading.
> 
> day 4: broken promises, death, and "i wish i never met you"  
> title from: i love you by billie eilish
> 
> funfact: this song was supposed to be for a tskkg fic but I found it too difficult to write. I might have a collection of drafts sooner or later.

Tsukishima has never been one for insignificant details— but it’s the little things, he finds, that remind him of Kuroo.

It’s laughter he hears down the street, it’s gunshots from a quiet corner in London, court hearings and lavish hotels. It’s couples walking past him on the sidewalk, pathetic attempts at riddles in investigations, and the letters that litter the carpet by the door every morning. It’s Bach, Mozart and every symphony known to man. It’s the contact list on his phone he can’t bring himself to delete. It’s who he sees in his dreams and the words left unsaid.

Sometimes, Tsukishima can forget. He can get through two crime scenes, a dozen other cases and spend the evening alone in his head. He can allow himself to be dragged into helping get groceries with Sugawara, he can straighten out some of his things under the providence of Mr Takeda. Sometimes there he can overlook the echoing in his mind, the whispers that linger in his ears. Sometimes he can bring himself to make coffee again.

He can be Tsukishima Kei. He can be the Baker Street detective expects him to be. The genius with unexplainable leaps and an impeccable record. He can be stuck up, arrogant, he can push people around and tell himself he isn’t driving them away. He can walk through London like a citizen instead of a soldier walking through the desolate, war torn battlefield. He can ignore the phantom traces that were left behind, he can stop staring after figures with dark hair and suits, thinking he’s seeing someone who looked so similar. Tsukishima starts seeing the ghosts beneath the dust, he starts hearing the echoes in a house that used to be lived in. 

But no matter how hard he tries, Kuroo is always somewhere in the crowd. Kuroo is always a move closer to him. And Tsukishima laughs and thinks himself a fool. Because he doesn’t fight the lips that move against his own, the arms that pull him close and the sweet nothing whispered into his ear, the words made for him alone. He is a fool in blind faith, he is the fool that allows himself ignorance. He holds Kuroo for dear life and wishes the rest of the world away.

He is the fool who wakes up and finds the space beside him cold and unfilled.

_ “My poor Kafka,” Kuroo cooes one day, he’s tucked in the curve of Kuroo’s neck, laying directly above his chest. His skin is warm, his cheeks flushing healthily. Tsukishima thinks that if he tries hard enough, he can ignore the gaping whole in the puzzle, the space he leaves unseen. “My dearest, naive, Kafka.” _

_ There’s hands cupping his face, honey golden eyes falling into his own, “oh how you’ve fallen.” _

“Good afternoon Mr Tsukishima, your brother will be with you shortly.”

_ “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tsukishima says in turn. He does not pull Kuroo’s palms away from his face. He says nothing when he leans in to kiss Kuroo again.  _

“Ah Kei, I’m glad you finally made it,” Akiteru gestures to the couch across from where he stands with his umbrella, Tsukishima takes a seat while his older brother moves to a trolley parked by his office desk. “Tea or coffee?”

“Tea is fine.”

Akiteru pours him a cup, passing it over the small coffee table between them. Tsukishima takes a sip but it's tasteless to him. It’s empty heat that settles in his stomach but does nothing to melt the chill that lingers on his skin.

"Tell me, brother of mine," Akiteru starts once they've both set the china down. "How have you been these days?"

Tsukishima stares at the wall past Akiteru's frame. There's a painting behind the desk. Of a river scene of the sorts. The colours blend muddily, the scene looks flat. It almost hurts to look at. "Bored," he says evenly. "Just passing through."

"How're the cases doing? What's that recent one you've picked up? The  _ boogeyman _ or was it that wild goose chase with the Scotland yard. I wonder what Dr Sugawara will call it next—"

"You're babbling," he wants to add an insult to his brother's horrible taste in paintings, but he holds his tongue. He doesn't have the energy for pointless chatter. "Why am I here, Akiteru?"

There's a pull on the side of Akiteru's polite smile. He's clearly struggling to hold up his constructed façade, but Akiteru knows better than this. "You're slipping."

"I'm," his brother takes a breath, his face contorts like he's just swallowed something bitter by accident, like he's trying to force it up his throat. "I'm worried about you."

Tsukishima scoffs. He laughs out loud, harder than he's ever had in weeks. He pats the cushions as he wipes away tears. "Is this a joke? Is this one of those hidden camera things they do on the telly?"

"I'm serious, Kei."

"Since when?" He fires back.

"Since you've suddenly stopped playing the violin. Since you've been walking around like a mindless corpse. Since you're either hurled up in your room or fast asleep on a desk."

"Since you've started drinking tea even though you never had a taste for it. Since you haven't said a word about the atrocious painting behind me or even made a move to comment about how I gained a pound or two," Akiteru pauses from breath. There's a war in his mind that Tsukishima cannot predict. "Since the whole incident with Kuroo Tetsuro on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital."

Tsukishima tilts his head to the side, resting it on a semi closed fist. "He wasn't there."

"I'm glad you know that," Akiteru says instantly. "I'm glad you know that Kuroo Tetsuro is  _ dead. _ "

"You've been spying on me."

"Is  _ that _ what you're concerned with?"

"No," he shifts his forearms to rest on his lap, leaning his weight forward. "I'm just intrigued that you're telling me the truth."

"Kei—"

"To think you had Koushi break the news to me," Tsukishima reaches for the edges of his glasses, pushing them up from where they were slipping with one hand. 

"It wasn't anything you didn't already know."

"But you didn't know that at the time." His brother's lips are drawn shut. He's lost this fight. "You didn't have the guts to tell me yourself. But it's a step in the right direction, brother mine."

He gets up, not bothering to iron out the wrinkles in his suit. "You went through a great deal of setting the scene. There's sheet music in your desk, my violin is in one of the drawers and you can keep it there for as long as you'd like. There's coffee, but you didn't brew it, it's from the café near the hotel Kuroo and I stayed in." He walks over to stand over his brother, his hand extended. "And then there's the phone."

Akiteru does not look him in the eye when he hands the plastic bag from within his blazer's inner pocket. It hits his open palm with a quiet  _ thud. _ He doesn't flinch when Akiteru's fingers encircle his wrist. He holds the desaturated umber gaze, his brother's eyes were always a slight hue away from his own.

"I shouldn't be handing this over to you."

"And here you are," Tsukishima replies. "It's no use to you anyway, is it?"

"Kozume tampered with it's settings. It's practically impossible to bypass."

"Except through me."

Akiteru nods stiffly.

"And why exactly are you letting me have this so easily?"

The grip on his wrist releases, but he doesn't shake Akiteru's hand off his own. "I figuredI owed you that much." His hand falls to his side. Tsukishima pockets the phone. He turns for the exit, pulling his coat on.

“Kei.” His brother is on his feet as well, they’re separated by an imaginary barrier, a divide straight down the centre of the room. Akiteru takes a breath and crosses, he puts a hand on his shoulder. “Kei you need to get yourself together.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“Lying doesn’t work on me, little brother.”

“But it worked  _ for  _ you, didn’t it?” Akiteru pulls away as though he’s been burnt. “I may have believed it then, brother, but I know better than take your word as gospel."

Tsukishima tucks his scarf beneath his coat, pulling his collar up. "Afternoon, brother mine." There's another voice ringing in his ears.

_ “You never liked coffee,” Kuroo stares at him as though momentarily perplexed by the sudden statement. His grin falls into a wistful smile, like he’s recounting a fond memory from his youth. _

_ “Ever the clever detective you are, Tsukishima Kei.” _

* * *

_ "It's all a question of imagination. Our responsibility begins with the power to imagine. It's just like Yeats said:  _ In dreams begin responsibilities.  _ Flip this around and you could say that where there's no power to imagine, no responsibility can arise. Just like we see with Eichmann." _

_ "What are you on about this time?" _

_ "Just reading your favourite book," Kuroo makes a show of the novel in his hands. "I swear Kei, you'll forever be stuck at fifteen. Just like Miss Saeki's ghost." _

_ "Is that what's happening then. Did I somehow manage to get through the entrance and meet you in whatever realm this is." _

_ Kuroo walks over, putting a hand behind Tsukishima's head and kissing his forehead. Kuroo takes a seat beside Tsukishima on his bed, propping the book over his crossed legs. _

_ "You're afraid of imagination. And even more afraid of dreams. Afraid of the responsibility that begins in dreams. But you have to sleep, and dreams are a part of sleep. When you're awake you can suppress imagination. But you can't suppress dreams." Kuroo closes the book just as the chapter comes to a close and young Kafka Tamura falls into a slumber to the fading lyrics of Prince. _

_ "Is this why you've been avoiding me lately?" _

_ "Weren't you the one telling me to let you go?" _

_ "You're not letting me go," Kuroo says quietly. "You're just running away. You're afraid of the responsibility that comes from these dreams." _

_ "And what responsibilities are there?" Tsukishima asks, edging back against the headboard, leaving a gap between him and Kuroo. "What could I possibly be afraid of?" _

_ But Kuroo's already got him cornered. Three moves in, he knew the game was over. Kuroo knew this and said nothing. He let Tsukishima play until there was no escaping reality. When the king has nowhere else to turn on the board, when Tsukishima runs out of metaphors to avoid the little things— when Tsukishima drinks coffee that is too hot to feel that warmth that lingers. He puts a hand over Kuroo's chest to push him away. And there's no mistaking it. There's no overlooking the absence of a heartbeat. _

_ "I wish I never met you." This does not cause Kuroo to falter. He's trapped between Kuroo's arms. "I wish this never happened." _

_ Kuroo does nothing. He stays silent, staring at Tsukishima with a blank expression painted on his face. Tsukishima fights the invisible crow pecking into his neck, he does not let it steal his tongue. The corvid seeks his tears, and he gives in. _

_ "You lied to me," his words drown as he speaks. He grabs a fistful of Kuroo's shirt, he beats against his empty chest when his face buries itself in Kuroo's shoulder. "You said you'd find a way back to me." _

_ "I'm sorry, Kei." _

_ "You're not supposed to say that," Tsukishima protests, "you're supposed to call me pathetic. You're supposed to laugh, you're not supposed to be like this. You're not supposed to care and I'm not supposed to love you." _

_ There's a faint ringing in the background. Kuroo starts to slip from his grasp. _

_ "But I do," Kuroo says into his ear, "I do." _

He groggily reaches for the phone in his coat pocket. His fingers fumble with the keyboard until he registers that it doesn't belong to him. There's a single button on the screen, he presses it.

_ "Time weighs down on you like an old, ambiguous dream. You keep on moving, trying to sleep through it. But even if you go to the ends of the earth, you won't be able to escape it. Still, you have to go there— to the edge of the world. There's something you can't do unless you get there. _

_ If we were normal. If we were normal, ignorant and stupid, would we find each other at the edge of the world, Kei?" _

The voice recording ends and there is a single sentence left on the screen with a white bar below it.

_ What is your name? _ It asks.

Tsukishima doesn't have to think twice when he types the password:

_ The Boy Named Crow. _

There's one final message on the screen.

_ I made it back to you. _


End file.
